


Five Times Laurent Thought About Damen

by Josselin



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-06 08:04:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12813201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josselin/pseuds/Josselin
Summary: Five times Laurent thought about Damen during Captive Prince and Prince's Gambit.





	1. Chapter 1

Laurent opened a second bottle. He remembered the Akielon prince well—had his figure as he stood over Auguste burned into his memory—and while he had recognized the man at once, it was different standing in front of him than it was spying across a field. 

He seemed larger, up close. Or perhaps he was larger, now. Laurent supposed that men might grow between nineteen and twenty-five, especially if all they did to occupy themselves was wave around their swords. He had a fighter’s body, even after he’d somehow been captured and thrown into a ship to Vere, with a swordsman’s musculature and a career soldier’s scars. There was a large scar on his shoulder that Laurent was not thinking about. He’d been pouring the first bottle into his goblet but he gave that up and drank straight from the spout.

The Akielon held himself like a king, even when he was chained at Laurent’s feet. He stared Laurent straight in the eye. Laurent’s guard would stare straight ahead, because they had discipline and even a particularly bold courtier would glance coquettishly through his lashes. 

Well, he wasn’t a king now. Now, he was Laurent’s prisoner, and Laurent’s guard was teaching him his place, and he’d have to await Laurent’s attention, and there was no need for Laurent to rush himself on behalf of a prisoner. He wouldn’t feel like a king rotting in one of the cells. There’d be none of the cowering slaves serving him in the cell. Laurent thought of the other slaves from Akielos that had arrived at the same time. They’d been in training for the prince, he’d been told. 

Laurent knew from his books how slaves were presented for their first nights in Akielos. He imagined it suddenly, one of the timid young men or women dressed in wisps of silk, led to the prince’s rooms to be confronted with that brute. He pitied them, frightened and with no idea what to expect, and then confronted with a man who thought of them as things that could be owned. Looking at an expression that held the degree of anger that had been turned at Laurent that afternoon. They would quail in front of him; they were probably only half of his weight.

He pictured how ruthless the Akielon probably was with them. He would only care about his own pleasure, Laurent knew. And the entire harem was probably trained exactly to his perverted tastes. They probably showed up as virgins already knowing that their role was just to bend over and not cry out as the prince fucked them. 

Laurent wondered if any of them ever struggled. Would the Akielon even notice? What attention would he pay to the cries of a slave or to their feeble attempts to move? He didn’t display any honor on the battlefield to princes who were his equal—his better—why would he be any different in his home? The slaves were better off in Vere, even if Laurent had to assign Jord to distract Govart from them. 

And that weasel Guion had the gall to suggest that Laurent might keep him as a bedslave. The notion was so insulting that Laurent wished he could turn his anger on the councilor, as well. The only redeeming part of Guion’s suggestion was that the Akielon seemed even more appalled by the idea than Laurent himself, his eyes expressing his horror even before Laurent had told his guards to take out the man’s gag. He’d suspected the man spoke Veretian from his reactions to their comments, but it was all the more infuriating that he turned out to be fluent. Better to know, Laurent supposed. Knowledge of one’s enemy was always useful. Though he wasn’t sure that this knowledge would ever be put to use. Damianos of Akielos didn’t deserve to live, and he didn’t even deserve an honorable death. Laurent would find out if he knew anything of value, and then send him to the cross. 

The second bottle was empty. Laurent was ready, he thought. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for the last six years.


	2. Chapter 2

The Akielon’s words echoed through his head even as the man’s footsteps echoed in the hall, leaving. “Think I’m going to take advantage of the situation? I am.”

The footsteps faded into the distance. Laurent remained standing against the wall. He didn’t entirely trust that the Akielon wasn’t about to return. “Think I’m going to take advantage of the situation? I am.”

His wrist hurt. He could feel it starting to bruise underneath the wrist lacing of his jacket. He’d broken his arm once before, in a riding accident, but that was a fast blur of falling and the snap of how he hit the ground trying to catch himself. Laurent had never stood next to a man who had Laurent in a hold and calmly held Laurent’s gaze while he threatened to break Laurent’s arm. Laurent could tell he had been ready to do it, too. 

The Akielon hadn’t returned, either of his own accord or stopped by Laurent’s uncle’s men. But his voice still echoed in Laurent’s head. “It was good of you to clear your apartments.”

The knife Laurent had dropped had been put on a table by one of his uncle’s men. Laurent walked unsteadily across the room and picked it up again, as though holding the knife would give him some measure of control. It didn’t work. His wrist hurt more when he grasped the knife tightly. It was easier to think about his wrist than the rest of what he was feeling.

He tried to organize his thoughts. He needed to talk to his guard, to hear Orlant’s report and understand which of the men had been killed as part of this attack. He should do something about the escaped slave, too, he should talk with Orlant about that also.

But he felt uneven on his feet, and there was no commotion in the outer chambers of his apartments suggestive of either the Akielon returning or of his guards being ready to report or of his servants coming to clean up the rooms, so he moved across the room, away from the worst of the blood and the wreckage, and sat down on the chaise. He relaxed against the back cushions and set the knife down on a small table next to the chaise. He should clean the knife, he thought absently, and that was as ridiculous as the rest of what he was thinking. 

“Think I’m going to take advantage of the situation?”

Laurent had thought he was going to take advantage of the situation, and not by leaving the palace, either. He’d sent his uncle’s men away because they were clearly part of the plot, arriving too late and obviously not with his best interests in mind, but he’d realized after they dragged the assassins out with them that this left him alone with the Akielon. He hadn’t known what to do about it either, except give ineffectual orders to try to keep the Akielon away from him, as though a few feet of marble floor space between them were going to mean anything. His words had been ridiculous. “I prefer you to stand further away”? The Akielon hadn’t paid any attention to that and it was just as well he’d been too distracted by the drug to have realized how foolish Laurent was acting.

It had been foolish. Laurent had drank the drug without checking his goblet more carefully, and then he’d ended up half fighting the Akielon himself over the body of the last man, and then he sent away the rest of the guards, and he let the last person he’d ever wanted to know he accidentally took a pleasure drug find it out by looking too closely at him and his cup. 

Laurent had thought he had known, when the Akielon lifted up the goblet and recognized the drug and laughed, exactly what was going to happen. He’d thought that he and Damianos were having the exact same thought at the same moment.

Damianos set down the goblet, and then he was going to walk across the room toward where Laurent was leaning against the wall. He was probably going to say something, something foolish probably. Laurent was going to have to pay attention to where he was and what he was saying and keeping his own breathing even, all at the same time. 

There would be a moment between the Akielon standing in front of him, confining Laurent between his bulk and the wall, and the Akielon reaching for him. The Akielon might threaten him, perhaps. Say that he would make it worse for Laurent if he tried to summon back his uncle’s guard. Or would he try for persuasion? Try to take advantage of the drug? Presume that Laurent would be desperate enough from the pink powder in his drink that he would gratefully fall into the Akielon’s arms?

That would not have happened. If the Akielon expected it, he would have been disappointed. But he might have reached for Laurent anyway. He might have grasped Laurent’s wrist again, placed his fingers on top of the existing red marks he had left earlier and restrained Laurent’s grip a second time.

What would he have done, then, Laurent thought. Would he have tried to reason with the man again? Keep his voice even and remind him of what would happen if he played into Laurent’s uncle’s plans and did this? Reminded him of what happened the last time he touched Laurent? Or would all of that have only been futile, and to speak of it more of an admittance of weakness than was necessary? 

Would the Akielon have tried to kiss him? Taste the flavor the drug had left on his lips? Would Laurent have bitten him, or spat in his face? It would only anger him, but would that have made a difference when all of the advantages of the situation were already his? “Think I’m going to take advantage of the situation? I am.”

The drug was making Laurent feel strange. He felt half-drunk and half wide awake. His skin felt sensitized. He ran his hand over his thigh and the touch of his hand left himself shuddering. Laurent pictured the Akielon touching him, pressing him against the wall where he’d been standing, leaning into Laurent with his weight. What if he had come back without even those flimsy slave garments, and pressed himself against Laurent.

Laurent squirmed on the chaise because it was too easy to imagine himself pressing back against the warmth of another body. It was the drug demanding it, he told himself. 

The Akielon would have to dispense with Laurent’s clothing, somehow. It was impossible to imagine him patiently unlacing it, so perhaps he would have reached for the bloody knife and cut it off. Left Laurent unarmored and defenseless and trembling. Or perhaps the Akielon would use his hands. Tear the fabric. Laurent pictured the flex of his arms as he lost patience with Veretian laces and solved the problem with brute strength. That was the only way he seemed to know how to solve any problems.

The wall would feel cold against his back, and the Akielon would be warm against his front. Of course, Akielons didn’t drug their slaves just to cuddle them against the wall. Laurent wouldn’t remain there for long. He’d be turned around and--and used. He imagined the feeling of the warmth of the Akielon’s body against his back, instead, pressing his front up against the wall. The cool stone would almost be a relief from how flushed he felt, and he could lean against it when the room felt so dizzy. It was hard to think. He didn’t want to think, anymore. He couldn’t think. Everything was too warm and he felt too much and his mind was fuzzy.

Would it have happened right there against the wall? The Akielon was large, to take Laurent would press him up on his toes. Laurent would have to brace his hands against the wall to keep his balance--or perhaps the Akielon would hold his waist and prop Laurent up, easily, as though Laurent’s weight were nothing, the way he had subdued the assassin as though holding the man helpless were nothing.

Or perhaps the Akielon would have moved him. Dragged him or carried him somewhere else more convenient. Perhaps the chaise Laurent was lying on now. Arranged Laurent to his satisfaction and rolled him onto his stomach and parted his legs. 

Or both. Laurent was not going to be in any better position to stop the man after he’d succumbed once. Laurent would have only been able to cling to the furniture to keep from falling off and to press his lips tightly together so that he did not say anything. 

The Akielon might want him to say something, might taunt him about his weakness to the drug and his helplessness, but Laurent was not going to make a noise. He could control that much of himself, at least, he determined. He imagined what it would be like. He could feel the nap of the fabric on the chaise with his hand, and he pictured it pressed against his face. He felt the weight of the Akielon on his back. He sweat; he was overheated from the drug and his thoughts and the warmth of another body next to him. Laurent’s cock was full and heavy even though he hadn’t touched it. 

He imagined the Akielon’s cock, and how he would push it inside Laurent. He held Laurent’s wrists loosely behind his back with one hand and used his other to press his cock inside Laurent’s body, and Laurent shuddered at the feeling of it breaching him. There was nothing he could do to stop it, Laurent thought. He couldn’t get away and there were no words that would stop Damianos once he put his mind to something, and all Laurent could do would be to close his eyes and feel as the man drove his cock into him, again and again.

“Your highness?”

Laurent’s hand scrambled for the knife on the table.

There was a knock on the door. “Your highness? Are you well?”

It was Jord. Laurent’s guard must have been found and briefed by the Regent’s men and finally come to check on him. 

“A moment,” Laurent said, pitching his voice to carry. He was proud of how there was no tremor in it.


	3. Chapter 3

Damianos liked the earring. Or perhaps he liked the pampered pet act. One of those. But his liking was in his eyes as he looked at Laurent that evening, the heavy way they rested on Laurent’s body. He watched Laurent from across the tavern as Laurent lost at cards to Volo. When Laurent came back across the room to sit next to him, Damianos followed him across the room with his eyes, and almost ended up looking at him cross eyed as Laurent slid onto the bench next to him. 

Perhaps this pet act was what the Akielon was used to—what he liked—because he seemed freer with Laurent than he was usually. He dared to fed Laurent bites of bread that Laurent only accepted because of his stomach’s hunger, and he grumbled deep in his throat when Laurent leaned in on the bench next to him and rubbed his thigh. 

By the time Laurent had finally gotten Damianos to lead him upstairs to see the messenger—if there was any hope the messenger was still here after two weeks of waiting—Laurent was smirking to himself because it seemed clear that Damianos had a completely different idea of what was going to happen when they were alone in the inn chamber. Damianos was terrible at acting and yet he was as easily led by a single earring as was the innkeeper and that ridiculous gambler Volo. 

Was Damianos picturing that their game was going to continue when they were alone? That the caress Laurent drew along his thigh in an inn common room would continue further up to where he truly wished it? That the pampered pet act would continue and Laurent would lower coquettishly to his knees in front of him? What possible reason would Laurent have for any of that, he thought. The Akielon did not think these things through. He was to be disappointed, and when they reached the room and came upon the messenger, it was amusing to see Damianos collapse into a chair next to the door.

Laurent dispensed with the messenger. The man left, probably riding back to Nikandros that very evening. The door closed behind him. They were alone in the room. Damianos stood. 

Laurent had been thinking, as the man had left and he had turned toward the door, about telling Damianos who the man was. About asking if he had any words for Nikandros, kyros of Delphi, and seeing if Damianos had any similar confidences to share with Laurent. Something about his identity, perhaps. Nikandros was very likely to come based on Laurent’s message and his signet ring, but a personal secret from his king would be sure to bring him. It might have been worth taking the chance.

These thoughts fled Laurent’s head as Damianos stood. Sometimes when they stood close together, Laurent was reminded anew of how tall Damianos was. Damianos was looking at him. Laurent remembered the game they had been playing a moment before, and he felt almost breathless. There was something bright and admiring in Damianos’s gaze now, and Laurent could feel how the moment was about to turn intimate. It was impossible to reconcile the warm smile the Akielon was bestowing on him now with the man who had murdered his brother.

Laurent felt as though cold water had been thrown on him, suddenly. He shifted his gaze. He took off the earring pointedly and dropped it into his pocket, and then he retreated to the bath, taking a moment to particularly tell Damianos not to follow.

It was a private bath chamber, which was an unusual luxury even for the nicest rooms in the inn. It might have been a connecting door to a shared room with buckets and clothes for washing and a large tub for soaking. Instead, it was a small room with water already set out by the servants and a kettle to warm it hanging over the fire. 

Laurent washed quickly, wondering if Damianos would listen to his instruction or whether he was about to open the door. There was no latch on the door from the inside, so the only warning Laurent would have would be the squeak of the hinges. Damianos might come in to continue their game, he supposed, or he might come because he was stubborn and he did not like to let Laurent out of his sight. That was the only reason that Laurent had consented to bring him along on this errand in the first place, though he admitted to himself that having Damianos along had proven quite convenient. 

But the man might insist on guarding Laurent even in the bath, or if he were the spy in Laurent’s camp then he might insist because he was reporting to Laurent’s uncle on all of his activities. He couldn’t really be the spy, could he? He hadn’t known about the other message, and he had seemed genuinely surprised by—Laurent didn’t think it was him. But there was someone, and Laurent did not think it was any of his men when he turned each of their names and faces over his head, so someone was clearly deceiving him.

Laurent turned his thoughts away from deception. He was in too good a mood to think of that, today. He thought instead of it it had been a public bath through the door. He might have called for Damianos to join him, then, so as not to be left alone with the gaze of the other men who were sure to be bathing in the evening. And it could have been like the game in the common room, sitting next to Damianos and pretending to be the too-expensive pet of a merchant. The others would eye them and wonder who the Akielon was, to merit such a prize, and speculate after they left.

They could wash, and Laurent could insist that Damianos help him wash his back. Laurent could imagine the feel of the cloth running over him, and he shivered. After washing they would soak, because that was what men did after washing. Laurent could curl up next to Damianos sitting on the edge of the bathing tub the way he had on the wooden bench in the common room. Draw his fingers along Damianos’s thigh under the water and see the man’s gaze focus exclusively on him, heavy with intent. 

Nothing could happen, in a public bath, with the other merchant and his assistant sharing the room watching them curiously, but that allows Laurent to be freer with his teasing than he would be if they were alone. He could touch Damianos, lean against him and feel his chest resting against Damianos's arm. Complain about the scent of the soap and cause Damianos to roll his eyes. 

The Akielon wouldn’t tolerate teasing forever, of course. At some point he would lose patience, and he reaches for Laurent, and wraps a hand around his neck, and pulls Laurent in close so he can whisper in his ear. His words are a threat, a murmur about making promises he doesn’t intend to fulfill, and Laurent pretends it is just a tease, and laughs flirtatiously back and then steps out of the bath and lets all of the eyes rest on him while he dallies slowly with the towel. 

And when they went back to the room a second time, Damianos would truly think that something was to happen. Laurent thought about it for a moment, torn between the smug satisfaction of dismissing the man’s hopes and seeing him collapse into that chair by the door a second time, or between remaining silent, and letting Damianos take a step closer, reach for him again when they were alone, tug Laurent a little bit closer—

The water had cooled. Laurent got out and dried himself perfunctorily with the towel, and put his pants back on. The earring was still in his pocket. He fingered it for a moment, thinking about putting it back on. Damianos would notice, if he came back wearing it in his ear again. His eyes would follow it. Laurent let it slip from his fingers and stay in his pocket. He returned to the room carrying his shirt in his hands and still drying his hair.

The Akielon had been fulfilling the role of a domestic servant. He’d decided to move half of the bedding from the straw mattress to a pile in front of the fire, and he’d found a plate of food from the hall. Laurent’s stomach grumbled and Laurent accepted the food and waved the Akielon off toward the bath himself. 

Laurent’s hair was wet, so he settled himself near the fire on the blankets Damianos had arranged there. The fire was warm, and the food was hearty and filling. He thought of Damianos in the bath. Was Damianos sitting in the bath thinking that Laurent was about to come through the door and join him? If two men sat in that small tub the water would overflow and spill out onto the tiled floor of the room. Laurent didn’t get up.

He ate half of the food and left the other half for Damianos, and thought of his messenger to Nikandros. Would the man make it out of Nesson-Elloy? He had made it this far. Would the kyros agree to Laurent’s proposal? If neither Torveld nor Nikandros were willing to come to Laurent’s aid then he was going to be desperate at the border. He might have to ask Damianos to assist him for real, beyond being his bodyguard and lifting heavy things for him, but to call the Akielons to his aid, to barter something of value to Vere for Akielos’s assistance so that he could overtake his uncle. He didn’t know what Akielos would find valuable enough to involve themselves in a civil war in Vere. Territory? Cutting further into the borderlands than they already had in Delfeur?

Or perhaps he did know what it would take. Perhaps it had been what he had been thinking of all evening, and all it would take would be living up to the teasing glances he’d been offering the Akielon prince all night. Damianos might be almost as easily won as Torveld. Except that Torveld had been easily distracted from the promise of what was to come—later—with the arrival of a demure blond slave, and Laurent had no such other slaves handy to distract the Akielon prince. Laurent had a sense that Damianos would not be so easily distracted. It would have to be Laurent himself. Was that really too great a price to pay for Vere? To free the kingdom from his uncle? And then Laurent would be remembered as the prince who rolled over for his brother’s killer to commit regicide on his uncle. It would be an inglorious ending to his line. Laurent pursed his lips and watched the fire.

Damianos returned from the bath. Laurent looked over. He had also put his pants back on, so Laurent could not see his legs, but he could see Damianos’s stomach, and his shoulders, and his arms, and his hair dripping wet on his shoulders. Damianos scrubbed at his head with a towel, and Laurent admired what that did for his torso while he did so. Damianos set the towel down on the chair and came to sit next to Laurent near the fire. 

Laurent prided himself on recognizing others when they were valuable, and his mind had just been on the eventuality where he might come to need this man very much. So he offered a thanks. “I don’t think I would have arrived here without your help, not without being followed. I am glad you came.”

Damianos leaned back with a hand resting on his knee while he listened to Laurent. “You’re in a strange mood.”

Laurent smiled. “I’m in a good mood.”

The Akielon was skeptical. 

Laurent smiled again. “The food is good,” he waved at the plate. “The fire’s warm. No one’s tried to kill me the last few hours.” You’re here, he continued silently in his head. 

“I thought your tastes were more sophisticated than that,” said the Akielon.

You know so little of my tastes, thought Laurent. He thought of moving a bit closer to Damianos on the blanket, and then, after a long moment, he did so, disguising his movement by reaching his hands in front of the fire as though he intended to warm them.

Damianos seemed deep in thought. There were moments when Laurent looked at Damianos and could tell he was thinking of his family and his kingdom. Laurent interrupted his thoughts, wondering if he would receive the truth this time.

It was a half-truth, a story about Jokaste. Laurent paid attention to Damianos’s description of her. Intelligent, accomplished, beautiful, desirous of power. It was interesting that those were the traits that Damianos claimed drew his attention after he’d been distracted all evening by a pretty sapphire earring. 

“I wouldn’t have picked that as your type,” said Laurent. He waited for Damianos to return the flirtation, to ask in return what Laurent thought was his type, or what was Laurent’s type, but the man still seemed distracted, his thoughts elsewhere.

And then he did. “And what about you?”

“I have a highly developed instinct for deception,” Laurent said, amused.

“No, I meant--”

“I know what you meant,” said Laurent. The Lady Jokaste must have been desperate to be a king maker to have been won over with this type of wordplay. Laurent waited to see if Damianos could do better.

“Are you shy?”

Laurent rolled his eyes internally. Did he seem shy, sitting next to Damianos by the fire, leaning in and letting the man talk freely without sending him to sleep in the stables with the horses? Laurent’s horse sometimes offered better conversation than Damianos did.

“You need to ask an actual question,” said Laurent.

“Half the men are convinced you’re a virgin,” said Damianos.

That was definitely not a question, and yet it was intriguing to Laurent that this is where Damianos’s mind was leading. Was he paying attention to the men’s talk? What did he think was the truth?

What did he want the answer to be? Was he hoping that Laurent was untouched and going to swoon into his lover’s arms? Or was that a nuisance to be dealt with and he desired a more experienced partner? If his own notion of princehood was any indicator, experience was to be expected. Laurent gambled with the truth and watched Damianos’s expression carefully. 

Damianos’s face was even. “I wondered if you reserved your love for women.”

For women? Laurent couldn’t stop himself from laughing aloud. “No.”

Damianos was defensive at his laughter. And he should be, Laurent thought. Was he so unobservant? Or so incapable of reading anything but his own motivations and desires onto others? Or perhaps he just found it unbelievable that any man who liked men would fail to fall into his arms at the first opportunity. Laurent shook his head a little, still surprised.

Damianos was still being defensive. Laurent distracted him by bringing up his brother Kastor, which had Damianos frowning again and tightening his shoulders as he brooded.

Laurent regretted it after he’d brought it up. This wasn’t the mood he wanted, introspective and regretful. He was in a good mood, a celebratory mood, a playful mood, and he wanted back the Damianos that had humored his games in common room. He wanted the Damianos who played along with the game in his mind in the fantasy shared bath, he wanted a Damianos whose thoughts were only on Laurent and who was a little bit tired of Laurent’s games but very much not tired of Laurent himself. 

He moved a bit closer to Damianos by the fire, leaning in. He should say something flirtatious, he thought. Or he could be direct. Ask Damianos specifically if he’d asked about Laurent’s past because he was thinking of propositioning Laurent. That might fluster Damianos, and Laurent enjoyed teasing him. He opened his mouth to say something.

Damianos leaned in closer, and Laurent flinched involuntarily backwards.

Damianos hadn’t even been reaching for him, just setting a damp towel from his hand beside the fire to dry. Laurent cursed himself internally, and then rose from the blankets near the fire to take the bed. 

The bed was cold, because it was further from the fire and because Damianos had stolen two of the blankets. Laurent refused to shiver and closed his eyes determinedly and waited to sleep.

He heard Damianos sigh near the fire, probably still lovesick over that fool Jokaste who had sold him into slavery in a foreign land. If Laurent sold him off to Vask he’d probably be more interested then than he was when Laurent was sitting right next to him, Laurent thought bitterly.

Perhaps Laurent had answered wrong when he told Damianos he wasn’t a virgin. He could have been cagey and just smiled enigmatically. He could have flirted more. Asked Damianos, “What are the other things the men say about me?”

That would have been useful to know. And Damianos would have hesitated to tell him, too. “They aren’t polite,” he might have hedged.

“And what do you say about me?” Laurent could have said.

“Nothing.”

“And what will you say about me?”

“What do you mean?” said Damianos.

“After tonight.”

Damianos might not alway understand Laurent, but he wasn’t slow to catch on. “Nothing.”

“Very good,” Laurent would have said. And that would have been Damianos’s cue to lean in closer, and reach for Laurent, and Laurent would not have flinched away, he told himself, half berating. 

He could go back over to the fire, he thought. He could say that he was cold. Or he could say nothing, and simply sit close enough to Damianos that the man could not misunderstand. 

He stayed in the bed.

Perhaps Damianos would come to him. Walk over to the bed. Laurent would have to be appropriately stern about that type of impertinence, he tells himself. Banish him back to his blanket. Or would he. Maybe if Damianos were suitably attentive in his approach. The bed was kind of cold. He could let Damianos climb in next to him, just because the man was always so warm. Maybe Damianos would run a warm hand down his arm. That would be--

Laurent’s thoughts were distracted by a movement across the room. He watched through his eyelashes, still pretending to be asleep. Damianos was rising from his place by the fire. He was coming across the room. Damianos stood next to the bed. He reached out a hand. Laurent felt it rest on his arm. 

Laurent blinked his eyes open, words deserting him. 

“We have to go,” said Damianos, and Laurent heard the sounds of voices downstairs in the common room and the innkeeper unbolting the front door.

**Author's Note:**

> [read the author's other Captive Prince fics!](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=kudos_count&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=0&fandom_id=3516977&user_id=Josselin)


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